A Nest of Nightmares

‘Take baby for a minute, would you?’ She flexed her arms when the weight was gone, and bent over the chest, stroking it with her finger tips. The wood was as sleek and satin-smooth as she had imagined. ‘Whose estate was this?’ she asked. ‘Somebody really took care of this chest. She must have rubbed it with oil and polished it every week to get the wood like this.’

‘Some old woman who just died,’ Rob said, glancing up at the elaborate gingerbread of the house. ‘She was all alone, no family, no children. An old maid.’

Helen hesitated, wanting to turn her back and walk away. She told herself she was being silly. Her fingers found the edge of the lid and she lifted.

They both sniffed, and looked at each other. They smelled nothing but the sun, the grass, the faint scents of musty furnishings exposed to the open air, the perfumes of people drifting around them.

‘Maybe,’ said Rob.

‘We didn’t imagine it.’

‘No, but maybe it wasn’t the chest at all. It might have been a coincidence that we smelled it when I first lifted the lid. Maybe it was someone passing by – ’

Helen giggled. ‘Anyone who smells like that and is still walking around – !’ She lowered the lid.

‘It’ll cost,’ said Rob. ‘But not like it would if we bought it from a dealer.’

Julian let out a crow of pleasure and began running away at top speed on his fat, stumpy legs. Helen looked around and saw that he had sighted a leashed poodle. She winced, seeing his inevitable tumble a split second before it happened, and started after him, to comfort him. But Julian took the fall with his usual uncomplaining good nature; it was baby Alice, safe in her father’s arms, who began to scream as Rob bent down to examine the chest again.

They spent more than they could realistically afford, but less – they were certain – than the beautifully made chest was worth. They were well pleased with themselves as they drove home from the estate sale, the chest in the back seat with Julian.

None of their furniture had been bought new; all of it had come as hand-me-downs from family or had been bought at garage sales, auctions, flea markets, and junk shops. What had started as economic necessity had grown into a point of pride. No shoddy, mass-produced contemporary furniture for Helen and Rob. They favoured dark wood, intricately carved high-backed sofas and chairs with velvet cushions, glass-fronted bookcases, and ancient, hand-made wardrobes. The chest was simple, but old and beautiful. It would fit in with the rest of their furniture.

When they had put it in place that night, in the living room near the red-velvet chair and the ornately tasselled floor lamp, beneath the black-and-white lithograph of a man on a lonely road, Helen opened the lid. Her hand flew to her mouth and she gagged at the rich and rotten smell of something dead. With an effort, Helen held back the rush of sickness, but tears came to her eyes.

‘Rob,’ she called weakly.

He came at once with the beers he had fetched to toast their new treasure. ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

‘The smell,’ she said hopelessly.

Rob went to the chest and leaned into it. Watching, Helen felt the sudden urge to pull him back to safety. He looked around, shrugging. ‘Honestly, darling, I can’t smell anything. Some old dust, maybe.’

She let herself breathe again. He was right; the smell was gone. But it must be lurking within the chest, every opening releasing it.

‘It was the same horrible smell,’ she said. ‘The minute I opened the chest, there it was.’

He gazed into the chest thoughtfully; put in one hand to stroke the interior. ‘I suppose it could be something . . . maybe some food that went bad, or maybe a rat got inside and died there long ago. Wood holds a smell for a long time.’

Helen nodded bleakly. The odour, brief though it had been, had disturbed her profoundly. ‘I wish we hadn’t bought it. I can’t bear that smell. I don’t want it in the house.’

Rob frowned and said, ‘You wanted it as much as I did. We agreed on it.’

‘I know. I fell in love with the way it looked. But I didn’t know – honestly, Rob, I can’t live with it!’

‘Do you smell anything now?’

She shook her head. ‘No, but I did when I first opened it. I know I did. And if that’s going to happen every time I open it – ’

‘It won’t. We’ll fumigate it. We’ll clean it out with disinfectant and then put some of those whaddaya­callems inside. Sachets. Oranges stuffed with cloves. I used to make them for my aunts every Christmas, and they’d put them in the big trunk where they kept the quilts. It’s a great smell, that orange and clove among the blankets.’ He looked at her earnestly, eyes compelling her agreement. Weakly, to avoid an argument, Helen nodded. But she didn’t believe his prediction. That horrible smell was somehow trapped in the chest, and it would not go away. Wood had a memory for smell that soap, disinfectant, and perfume could not erase.